Mary Is Still In Love With You
by patsan
Summary: Memories are tricky. You'd think they are fixed, frozen in time like carved stone but cast a different light on them and they are... changed. He had not looked for this, had not wanted it but once doubt had crept over the precincts of his mind he had been powerless to it. "Mary is still in love with you," cousin Violet had said. What if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life?


_Hi there, my dear readers!_

_What I'm presenting you today started as a short missing moment written in a quiet night few months ago. Clearly, I got carried away :P_

_In my defence, I've always been fascinated by Matthew's thought process between episodes 2x07 and 2x08, and, more specifically, between the moment Violet pushes into his room and tells him that Mary still loves him, and the dance scene when suddenly everything seems to be so close to the surface, both Mary and Matthew panting with feelings so strong and yet so closely restrained. It all comes undone in that scene, and they dance and then kiss, even though they shouldn't._

_But what led to that, emotionally speaking? How did Matthew go from a shocked "What?" to Violet's words to "Oh God, Mary," when she mentions to their failed romance? Did he keep Violet's words into his heart for all these weeks, months even (five, in fact)? Did he even believe her at first? And how did he come to accept the idea that Mary could, in fact, still, love him? And what about his feelings?_

_As you can see, there is a lot to be explored, and it was fun to take a tour into Matthew's confused mind at this point in canon._

_As of now, this story is completely canon compliant and I'm marking it as complete, but I'm not sure what it will become of it. I have thought about writing a chapter from Mary's point of view in the future, and even one from Lavinia's point of view. Or maybe the story could go AU, and if Lavinia never interrupts them..._

_But I rambled way too much :P_

_Let me know what you think of this story, and what would you like to see next :)_

_As always, my thanks go to the amazing **darkblueyank** for the polish and some interesting inputs._

_Enjoy!_

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**Mary is Still in Love with You**

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Surprise had swept over him and faded away rather quickly.

Doubt had been left in its wake, but not immediately.

When Cousin Violet had left his room five months ago and Bates had come in to help him get ready for bed, Matthew had been too dumbfounded to think straight, shocked to say the least. When he was finally left alone at last, settled into bed, he'd stared at the dark ceiling of his room for some time, knowing it would be impossible to simply drift off after his cousin's visit.

So he had not closed his eyes, had not huffed in annoyance at how sleep would elude him.

Instead, he'd frowned.

Wide awake, his mind had done what it always did when confronted with something unexpected.

It had set out to understand the exact terms of the predicament he had found himself in.

He had tried and succeeded into dividing himself in two, keeping all emotions at bay. His heart did not beat faster as he recalled the words, his breath did not hitch when he thought-

No, he could not think of that.

He had to _understand_ first.

So he had frowned alone in his small room at the Abbey that night and pondered on the impossible words he had heard only hours before.

The reasonable, logic part of himself had soon decided then that Cousin Violet never said anything without a purpose.

It descended from that that she must have had a very good reason to push into his room at that strange hour of the night. It had been easy enough to figure that that reason had to be Downton.

Matthew knew the family had hoped a match could be made between himself and Mary, regardless of how they felt for each other and they both had been very aware of it from the very beginning.

Most of the family had given up on that in time, but, he'd figured, one last try could not hurt.

This was something he could understand, and perhaps he could have felt indignant at this new insinuation into his life, but Matthew couldn't muster any anger at all for she'd always had a way of meddling, Cousin Violet, although, even his mother would admit, often for the right reasons. Wanting to keep the money and the title within the family, hoping that Mary could still benefit from these even after all that had happened... well, that was a honourable thing to hope for, he supposed, and more than that, Matthew knew how protective Cousin Violet had always been of Mary.

A small smile had curved his lips at the thought.

Yes, that must be the reason. And Matthew really could not fault her for at least trying.

He'd breathed in relief after that, and soon exhaustion had taken over and he'd fallen in a dreamless sleep.

The following day he had been in good spirit and he'd gone through his routine of exercises with a sense of peace and determination. He had breakfast with the family and Lavinia had sat by his side, like she always did those days, while Mary joined them a little while later. They had not talked much, Robert monopolizing his attention throughout the meal and she had left after not long, going on about her day. Lavinia had gone to send a telegram to her father later in the morning, and so Matthew had been left by himself for some time.

He had one of the nurses help him outside—_he could take some step_, he had insisted; _it was better he did not overdo himself this morning_, the nurse had steadily replied, and so he'd stayed in the wheelchair as she'd carried him out to a spot of his liking—and a small part of him had missed when it was Mary to push him around on his tours on the grounds, if they could even be called so.

He had quickly reprimanded himself, because he was better now, he was healing, and he could not assume to have any rights to benefit from Mary's company anymore.

Still, he'd missed her lately, as they were not spending much time together, that with Lavinia always at his side and Mary...

What did she do these days?

He'd seen her going into the library or the dining room, now converted into a dormitory, talk to one or another of the patients, but he'd never seen her care for any of the officers as she had for him.

Matthew had frowned, that day, in the clear air of the morning, and, unbidden, a thought had found its way into his mind, because, yes, he had quite easily come to terms with the reason why Cousin Violet had come to his room the night before, but what of her words?

He had not allowed himself to really _think_ about her words. Even as he'd dismissed it as her will to grant her granddaughter the inheritance she should have had, well, Matthew could not help but mull over the _what_ she had chosen to say.

_Love. _

She'd talked about love.

But surely that could not be.

Lavinia had come back just in time to stop his bothering thoughts, they'd spent the rest of the morning pleasantly talking about their wedding, for which they had yet to set a date.

"April, do you think?" she had asked.

And he'd smiled.

"I think that would be perfect, my dear."

_"__Mary is still in love with you,"_ Cousin Violet had said, and even though he should have just dismissed these words, forgotten about them and focused on the conversation at hand, still they whirled in his mind.

He couldn't bring himself to believe them but as he sat with Lavinia talking about her walk in the Downton Village, and later, as Cora asked them about their wedding ceremony, he simply could not stop thinking about them.

But, what she said... it was impossible, wasn't it? Mary had been affectionate towards him, especially as of a late, but they were family so of course she cared for him, just as he did for her.

That was the beginning and the end of it, he'd repeated to himself that day, and then again that evening, as he took small, unsteady steps towards his bed, Bates close by in case he needed any help.

He'd repeated the concept often to himself in the following days, as soon as his thoughts drifted to Violet's words. Yes, he would think to himself, as bizarre as it sounded, Cousin Violet had been wrong.

But days had passed, and as he settled in his new life at the Abbey, parts of that strange conversation would suddenly come to mind, unexpected and deeply troubling, although he had become quite good at shying away from them, busying himself with a book, talking to some of the other patients, seeking Robert for this or that matter, listening to his mother's proud comments on the hospital.

_"__You loved her once. Are you sure you can't love her again?" _

That question had haunted for some time.

He had loved Mary in the past, very much so, but wasn't it part of a life he'd left behind the moment he'd bought his commission into the Army? When he thought about that time it felt like a faraway, albeit beautiful, dream. But that was all it was now, a dream, and he had learned from his mistake.

When he'd come back, they had built their bridges back and made peace with each other. They had even said so when they first met again.

_"__Are you sure you can't love her again?"_

Things were different now, of course they were. She was engaged to be married with another man, and he—well, he had been... _spared_.

However undeserving, however little and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, he had been spared by the blasted war. Others, too many of them, had died in that bloodbath and so many of the survivors had been left bereft, stripped in different ways, hopeless wanderers in a world that had been abruptly awakened by the war.

But not Matthew.

For some reason, he was still standing, metaphorically speaking at least, because the physical act of it would take some more weeks to become a common occurrence again.

But it hardly mattered, because he had been given another chance, and he was grateful for it.

_"__A proper life."_

Yes, yes, he had a proper, normal life coming.

It was a week after his miraculous leap off the wheelchair and hope had been blossoming in his heart.

A proper life.

He had promised himself he would always deserve it.

He would enjoy the most inconsequential moments, he'd decided. He would cherishing every minute he was so fortunate to have.

He could go back to work, he could take a new interest in the estate, and not because it was his _duty_, not because he and his family would always benefit from it, but because it was _right_, and because it involved so many more people than just the Crawleys, and if one can be a herald of joy and well-being, he'd learnt, then one should be.

A proper life.

He would have a family one day, since he was to be married, and children would hopefully come, and that wish had brought him such joy those days, that he could not help by smile, and if Lavinia asked "What is it, darling?" he would just shrug and smile a little wider.

Lavinia, his bride to be, whom he loved, and with whom he would build a life as soon as his legs were strong enough to keep him up.

Lavinia, who had been ready to sacrifice everything a woman holds dear in life to just be with him.

_"__And if they'd just wanted to be with you, on any terms?"_

Matthew closed his eyes as the memory invaded his mind, standing now on his own two feet in front of the gramophone, months after those first exhilarating times.

He was alone in the big hall of Downton Abbey, mere days before his wedding day. All was quiet around him, and a knot was in his throat, that he couldn't bring himself to explain.

He rested his cane against the small table and turned over a record.

_Ah yes_, he thought as he read the title of the song. "Look for the silver lining" it said.

_That is so appropriate_.

He set the disk on the plate, positioned the needle and music filled the hall.

He should probably stop it for it was late and even cousin Robert had gone to bed, but it was dark outside, and he was alone, and in a few days he would be a married man.

Still, it weren't thoughts of his impeding nuptials whirling into his mind, but rather it was-

_"__And if they'd just wanted to be with you, on any terms?"_

He breathed deeply as he remembered these words.

She'd whispered them sitting next to him on the bed, not an appropriate place for a cousin, he reasoned now, but better suited for a fiancée or maybe not even her. A wife.

_ "__Do you love me enough to spend your life with me?"_

_"__I want to-"_

What did _she_ want? What had Mary wanted back then?

What did she want now?

They had been so close during his slow recovery, before... well, before Lavinia came back. Had he tried to make up for Lavinia's absence by allowing Mary to come so close to him?

One corner of his lips twitched, because no one allowed Mary to do anything if she didn't want to.

And yet she had beside with him at any given moment and he had not thought much about it at the time because it had warmed his heart back then, to think how gladly she spent time with him, time she could have devoted to organise her own wedding.

Instead, she sat by him, talking and laughing, teasing each other and it felt just so... _good_, so natural to be together like that. Almost as they used to.

It had been wonderful and Matthew had been glad that they had found again a companionship and a friendship that had simply not had the proper time to grow and bloom in the past, because passion and love had soon overtaken them in his heart, a mistake he'd learnt to think of as a youthful blunder.

But... that was weeks and meanwhile Cousin Violet's words, like poison, had slowly seeped into his heart.

Drop by drop, doubt had crept upon him, because... because what if thinking _that_ had been the mistake?

_"__Do you love me enough to spend your life with me?"_

What if he should have given it (_her_) more time?

_"__You can't be sure I was going to refuse you, even if it had been a boy. Because I'm not."_

Had he not given her enough time? He had waited several weeks for her to make up her mind. If she loved him, he'd thought at the time, then why... why was she not sure? The answer had seemed clear enough then, but now...

_"__That's the point! I can't be sure," _he replied that day.

Had he made a mistake?

Had he—_God_, had he misunderstood it all?

_"__You loved her once. Are you sure you can't love her again?"_

No.

No, he could not.

They were _family_ and that was all there was to their relationship, and if something different, something more... nuanced or... or improper_..._ kept lurking behind the corners of his heart...

_"__I'm about to be happy, does that count?"_

_"__I know you don't like him, but..."_

_"__Have you seen the boy's haircut in Paris?"_

_... _no_, no_, it would remain there, hidden, unnoticed and certainly _ignored_, for the time being.

And yet...

And yet memories are a tricky thing, Matthew thought now as he stared into the distance and music played around him. You would think they are fixed, frozen in time like carved stone, beautiful sculptures you can admire and marvel at, unmoving, lifeless, constant, but try and cast a different light on them, and they are... changed.

Matthew had not looked for this, he had not wanted it. In fact, he had tried his very best not to even consider it, these words, what they meant, but they would not leave him alone, they had infiltrated his consciousness and they had changed his memories.

They had cast a new light on them and they had now shifted, moved, turned into something different right before his eyes, something beautiful and tragic, because they were not the same, and she_... Mary... _she was not the same in them anymore.

Once doubt had crept over the precincts of his mind he had been powerless to it.

_"__Mary is still in love with you,"_ cousin Violet had said that night.

Could she be right?

He would know if Mary loved him, Matthew had thought so many weeks ago, almost in annoyance, but then... Then he would remember the way she'd smiled at him that first dinner at Downton after his self-imposed exile of two years. Her smile had been open, if a bit insecure, but warm and welcoming all the same. It had reassured him, made him thankful that there was no tension between then, but if he was truly honest with himself it had also made him long for something that had never been within his reach and yet made him yearn, still, _always_.

His previous certainty swayed, the more time passed the more he doubted himself.

_"__Mary is still in love with you."_

Could that be the reason behind all her witty comments, her grins, all their affectionate conversations during the weeks of his recovery?

It had been a very dark moment of Matthew's life but he'd find such a comfort in Mary's presence and the way they were together... it had seemed so harmless, so... familial. Had it had a different meaning for Mary, an hidden significance he'd never thought to even look for, let alone understand?

Could her eyebrows tilting up at one of his jokes mean more than just amusement?

And when she played with her long necklace, was there something in her mind that she would not share?

When she'd spoken to him in a soft, sweet voice, willing him to see how much life had left to him, still, despite his wretched injury, and when she'd taken care of him even though no one had asked her to do so, sitting so close to him on his bed, caring, encouraging, simply being there for him... as _a wife would do_, could that be—could it be love?

Could it all be because she... _Mary_... because she felt... differently from what he'd thought?

_"__I'm glad to see you happy,"_ she'd said, but she had not sounded glad nor relieved and yet he could not understand what she sounded like at the time and so he'd dismissed it because she did look well, and she was about to be happy, so she'd said, and he was happy for her, he _would_ be happy for her. He would like this fiancé of hers even if everything in him screamed that the man just wasn't right for her, but who was he to say something, anything at all, and who was he to judge?

He'd believed what he'd wanted to believe, he could now see, and he had listened to her words and had taken them at face value, but had he been right in doing so?

Had not she told him that he must never do that?

_"__You should learn to pay no attention to the things I say"_, she'd said in a soft, suggestive voice during a night that seemed like a million years ago now.

They'd been alone and he'd been young and foolish but he was so in love and when he'd looked at her he'd suddenly known that she was not playing with him, not that time.

There had been truth in her words that night, there had been truth in her hands as they had caressed his neck and jaw, and there had been such a sweet truth in her kisses, in the hotness of her mouth opening under his, in her tongue seeking his warmth, pushing in in such a delicious way as she met him with the same passion, the same abandonment that he'd felt burning in his chest, setting his every bone on fire.

He had often recalled that night and that blissful kiss in his darkest moments in the trenches, when he would lay down waiting for dawn to come, too tense for sleep and too tired and hopeless and scared to prevent himself from fishing into his most precious memories. Too exhausted to berate himself for it. It had been so surprising—and yet not at all—to discover how many of them were linked to Mary.

Mary, welcoming him with a shy smile after that first kiss.

Mary, looking at him with a challenge in her eye as she walked past him in the crowded Village Hall.

Mary, crying under a tree on a August day.

_"__So I ruined everything?"_ she'd asked desperately that day.

And he'd thought she was talking about their chances to build a life together as future Earl and Countess of Grantham. He had thought she was mourning her prospects to have the life she'd always been promised but never granted because of that accident of fate that had decided she be born a woman. He had never considered, not even for a moment, that she could mean _them_. Not the heir presumptive and the eldest daughter, not the middle-class lawyer and the lady, but _them_, Matthew and Mary and their chance to be happy just because they were together, just because they were...

... in love.

_What an idiot._

Love.

_"__Mary is still in love with you."_

_Still _in love.

In love with _him_.

And after days and weeks, after his legs had become stronger and his spine more reliable, after he'd pushed away his fears and found a way to speak with her as he did before, meaningless dinner conversations, empty frivolities at tea-time, a few literary discussions in the library, slowly but surely doubt had melted away and a new awareness had taken its place, and now...

Now the past was lit by a soft new light, glowing like ember inside his heart, chasing away the darkness, healing the scars, putting back to wholeness the remainders of the broken man he'd been for so long.

And for the first time in years, he finally understood. Not the alluring enigma, not the mysterious woman of his dreams, but _Mary_. She smiled at him these days and he smiled back and he could see it in her eyes now, in the way they lightened up as soon as they set on him, in the way her voice would soften just one bit, in her very countenance, in her whole presence, in the way she spoke his name.

_"__Mary is still in love with you."_

Matthew sighed in the big hall of Downton, thinking how unfair it was that something he had so looked forward just a few short months ago, his wedding, was now so heavy on his chest. He looked down at his hands, trying to focus on the music and the lyrics. A silver lining, they said, and yet he could not find it.

_"__You may live forty, fifty years with one of these two women. Just make sure you have selected the right one."_

But it didn't matter now, did it? He was getting married and Mary was promised to a man who would buy her happiness.

_Look for the silver lining_, and wasn't it ironic? It was exactly what he had to do now and it didn't matter that he felt as if, once again, his life was being taken away from him, and him swept along by a fate that seemed to enjoy mocking him.

And then a voice spoke and his heart stopped and he swallowed.

"Where is everyone?"

It was Mary. Of course it was here, for where else could she be when he tried his best not to think of her and yet she was all he could think about?

He took a deep breath, then turned around and welcomed her with a smile that he prayed would not waver.

"I'm not sure," he said. _About so many things, Mary._ "Cousin Violet's gone home."

"What about you?" she asked, coming a little closer.

_What about this fool? _

"I'm waiting for Lavinia and Mother," he said, and looked around as if they would appear now that he'd mentioned them, remembered them.

"Dr. Clarkson wants Lavinia to stay here. He'll see her tomorrow," Mary said, and Matthew nodded curtly at the information, accepting the doctor's precaution, relieved everything had been taken care of.

He knew he had to ask for the motor now, so that as soon as his mother was ready (what was she up to now, perhaps checking on Carson?) he too could retire for the night, but he really couldn't bring himself to do it and silence settled over them, around him.

Matthew looked at Mary, really looked at her, standing now close enough to touch and yet unreachable.

_Mary_, who had kissed his cheek that day at the station with a desperate strength, like her will alone could keep him safe.

_Mary_, who had wanted to be with him on any terms.

She turned her head toward the gramophone.

"I don't know this one," she said quietly, a hint of curiosity behind her words, like this was just another conversation, like this situation was not tearing him apart.

"Actually, I rather like it," he countered softly. "I think it was in a show that flopped, _Zip Goes a Million_, or something," he explained, infusing more enthusiasm in his words than it was actually necessary. And when she only smiled in response, Matthew thought that maybe there could be a silver lining, if he looked for one. Maybe having Mary in his life in any way was better than not having her at all.

He smiled at her and he finally decided to stop thinking about past mistakes and future vows.

He didn't want to wonder about what it would have been if only he'd... what, talked to her all these years ago? Written a letter when he'd felt the urge to do so when he was first admitted into training, in Manchester, after leaving Downton with a broken heart? Gone up the Abbey as he'd wanted to, so many times, as his mother had suggested only once, during one of his leaves, asking him if he truly was sure he didn't want to go up for dinner?

What could have he done?

Taken her in his arms when she cried at the Garden Party? Told her that it did not matter, that he loved her enough for the both of them, even though a part of him would always resent that she did not love him back?

What a stupid, stupid mess he had done of them.

He didn't say anything at all, because it would make no difference now.

Instead, he opened his arms, a silent invitation.

She watched his pretended arms and then him in surprise, but when he only smiled at her—_darling, I wish I could say more, I wish so many, many things_—she pressed her lips into a small smile of her own, and gracefully, moved to him and slid into his arms.

He was not surprised that they could still fit together so perfectly.

"Can you manage without your stick?" she asked, her voice warm and caring as they smoothly moved in time with the music.

Had it ever begun, their story or had it only been a dream, a vision of a future that was never meant to be?

"You are my stick," he said sincerely, completely open to her now for the first time in years as his fingers flexed around her, over her shoulders, over her evening dress, and he held her just close enough to memorize her warmth.

Mary, who was in his arms now and would never be again.

Mary, who loved him.

Mary, whom _he loved_.

He looked at her as they danced and his heart swelled with love and desire.

Sadness and despair swirled in his mind, squeezed his heart and he could feel longing and anger and resignation and devotion all at once filling his whole being.

He had chosen his path and she had chosen hers.

There was no space for regrets, he would not allow it to be.

Until Mary spoke.

"We were a show that flopped," she said in a little, too cheerful voice that was not like hers at all.

Something in Matthew broke.

He swallowed hard, feeling as if suddenly all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

His fingers pressed more urgently into the satin of her dress, closed more securely around her fingers.

Trapped.

They were trapped.

"Oh, God, Mary," he murmured, leaning closer, so close that he could feel the warmth of her skin, smell the delicate scent of her French perfume. _Oh dear God, how was he to survive without her?_ "I am so, so sorry," he said after a deep, deep breath. "Do you know how sorry I am?" _For not understanding, for making assumptions, for not believing in us the way I should have done._

"Don't be," she said with a small, sad smile. "It wasn't anyone's fault. If it was, it was mine."

And Matthew breathed and shook his head, and he spoke again, even though he knew he should just end their dance and bid her goodnight, but how could he let her go, now that he knew?

"You know, Cousin Violet came to me and told me to marry you," he said slowly, recalling for the millionth times that night that had changed it all.

"When was this?" Mary asked surprised, her head leaning back to look him into his eyes, but he could not meet her gaze.

"A while ago," he said, looking over her shoulder. "When we knew I would walk again."

When he glanced at her again her eyes were set down, somewhere over his chest and he felt his heart squeeze painfully in it.

"Classic Granny," Mary said, a slight quiver in her voice. A pause. "What did you say?"

He opened his mouth to talk, stopped and then tried again.

"That I couldn't accept Lavinia's sacrifice of her life, her children, her future," he started slowly, "then give her the brush off when I was well again," he went on, looking down at her, offering all the reasons he had given to Cousin Violet that far away night, all the reasons he had kept repeating in his own mind over and over again to convince himself that he must marry a woman who he would never love as the one he was now holding in his arms.

Mary lifted her face and their eyes met as he spoke.

She stayed silent, staring back at him, her gaze firm and cautious, but her chest rose and fell quickly with every breath, and she was so terribly, achingly close.

_"__You loved her once. Are you sure you can't love her again?" _Violet had asked. Had he ever stopped loving her?

"Well, I couldn't, could I?" he whispered, pleaded with her, completely lost in her dark eyes.

_Mary_. His darling Mary.

He did not know what he hoped for.

Maybe he was looking for an absolution, for a miracle, for the world to spin backward on its axis and take them back to the start.

He leaned down just a fraction, and he knew it was a mistake.

He shouldn't look at her like this, he shouldn't move in closer, invade her space, move his eyes down on her lips. He shouldn't want to kiss her as if his life depended on it.

But, God, it was so strong, the pull that he felt, and she was looking up at him with wide, deep eyes, as if it was the same for her, as if this impossible dream that was their love was not doomed right from the start.

How could the dream vanish without one last taste?

How could they go through life without one last, sweet memory?

They couldn't, could they?

"Of course not," she whispered, approving of his reasons to act like the honourable man he didn't want to be, not if it meant losing her, but it was too late to change things.

It was too late for him to stop, for her to step away, for them to deny what they truly wanted any longer.

"However much I might want to."

"Absolutely not."

This was the end, wasn't it?

He leaned down, closing his eyes, and kissed her.

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**The End**

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_There you go._

_As I said, I'm marking it as complete, but do let me know what you would like to see next, if the considerable length of this piece didn't scare you off :P_

_I'd love to hear what you thought of this journey into Matthew's mind, so don't be shy ;)_

_That is all for now._

_Till next time :)_


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